Lazarus
by Sherlock Jay Holmes
Summary: Continues from His Last Vow. The British Government needs Sherlock Holmes to neutralise the biggest threat they have ever faced. The Holmes family has been hiding a dark, dark secret. With Mycroft compromised and John torn between his wife and his best friend, will Sherlock be able to save the day once again?
1. Chapter 1

"…_but I believe I'm bleeding internally; my pulse is erratic and you may have to restart my heart on the way…"_

"_The East Wind takes us all in the end."_

"_You know what happened to the other one."_

"Sherlock, really, have a care." The British Government leant back on the couch, sighing dramatically.

Sherlock Holmes, rolled up in a sheet, looked up at his brother from the carpet, his mercurial eyes taking in the lines of exhaustion that his brother failed to hide.

"I am fine, Mycroft," he grumbled. "There is no need for you to hold me prisoner in your castle."

Mycroft sighed again.

"Brother-mine, you cannot keep doing this," he said softly. He slid from the couch to the carpet and lay next to his brother. "Please, I beg of you, stop."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I don't know if I can," he said in a small voice. "I promised John and Mary…"

Mycroft took his brother's hand in his own. "You have not only fulfilled your vow, little brother, you have gone over and beyond the call of duty. There is nothing more for you to do." He sighed yet again. "There are people other than John Watson who love you and need you…and frankly, given recent developments, I am no longer sure that John should be at the top of that list."

"Do I hear sentiment, brother dear?" Sherlock mocked.

"Yes."

Sherlock Holmes turned his head and stared at the exhausted visage of his brother, the most powerful man in the United Kingdom, and, quite possibly, the world.

"Caring is not an advantage," the detective whispered.

"I know," the older Holmes said. "But I'm afraid I cared for you too much and too early – a long time before I learnt that, and, as such, it is an incurable condition."

Sherlock remained silent, his mind taking him back to every instance in his life where his brother had been there to help him – regardless of whether that help had been appreciated or not. To his surprise, he saw that Mycroft had always been there for him, even when Sherlock had tried to push him away or left him behind for other people. Despite their façade of sibling rivalry, the older Holmes had always taken care of his little brother in every way he could. He remembered his brother saying "Your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock sighed, fatigued beyond measure – physically and emotionally. His gunshot wound still hurt, and he felt drained from all the drama with Mary and Magnussen…and his exile, which was cut short because Jim Moriarty appeared on every screen in the country.

"The Watsons are safe," Mycroft said quietly. "Security details are in place for them, as well as our parents."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied. He propped himself up on an elbow. "Why am I here, Mycroft?"

"Convalescence."

Sherlock snorted. "Have you found the perpetrator yet? Moriarty is definitely dead."

Mycroft shook his head.

"Sherlock…there is something you should know," he said softly. "I am not sure if it is relevant to our present dilemma or not, but you should know the truth before we go any further."

Sherlock frowned at his brother.

"How much do you remember of your infancy?" Mycroft asked.

"I remember everything after my third birthday," Sherlock said haughtily. "Everything that I haven't purposely deleted, that is."

Mycroft nodded. "I promised Mummy I would not say a word to you unless it became important. I believe it is time for you to know now."

Sherlock stared.

Grimacing, Mycroft sat up. "We have another sibling," he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded. "I thought as much. Older than you, yes? I have some vague recollections of a young man in the house. Is he dead?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and shuddered. "No, Sherlock. He is not dead. He is the man behind Jim Moriarty. He is incarcerated – he has been, since a few months before your third birthday."

Wide-eyed, Sherlock could only gape at his brother.

"Sherrinford was always the smartest of the lot," Mycroft said quietly. "I worshipped the ground he walked on. He was ten years older than me. By fifteen, he had graduated. By twenty, he was running a criminal network. If I had not stumbled on to one of his criminal activities accidentally, he would never have been caught."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "What has this to do with Moriarty?"

"Jim was Sherrinford's son. I have reason to believe he is not the only one."

"How is that possible? Jim was older than me!" Sherlock cried.

"Biology, Sherlock. Puberty hits most people by fourteen. We believe Ford fathered Jim, Jack and Jon at fifteen. Of course, we did not know it back then. Triplets, Sherlock – and identical. Jim was the brains, obviously. Jack often played Rich Brook. Jon is the sane one – and possibly, the most dangerous. Jon is a mathematician, like Mummy."

"We?"

"Mummy, Daddy and a few others in my line of work."

"Are they looking to avenge Jim? Is that what this is?" Sherlock asked. "But that doesn't make sense! If they wanted me to die in disgrace, I was already exiled and on a suicide mission – you're never wrong. Why show their hand now?"

"Sherlock, do you really think I would have let you die in disgrace in Eastern Europe?"

Sherlock flushed and looked away as realisation dawned. "Mycroft Holmes' pressure point is his junkie detective brother," he quoted softly.

Mycroft nodded. Silence reigned for a few minutes.

"But I destroyed his network, Mycroft," Sherlock said finally. "I am positive I did."

Mycroft sighed. "Jim is gone, Sherlock, as is his network – you did a very thorough job."

"Then…"

"Ford is still alive, and will be released soon on grounds of good behaviour. Jim was the loose cannon, but Jon and Jack will follow their father's instructions."

"Which are…?"

"Ford will kill me and acquire you. He was always fascinated by you." Mycroft closed his eyes. "Sherlock, I need to train you to take over my job when I die. This country – and this world – cannot afford to lose both of us to Ford. He has no enmity with you, and I have taken steps to ensure your safety, especially in the event of my death. You must not let him take over."

A cold fist closed around Sherlock's heart. "Don't be so fatalistic, brother," he said lightly. "We won't be rid of you so soon."

Mycroft gave him a half-hearted smile. "I am the pragmatic one, little brother."

"So, I'm here to learn your job?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded.

"And what about my job?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I will try my best to survive to save you the inconvenience of taking over."

"You'd better." Sherlock shifted and laid his head in his brother's lap. "I am not sure what I would do without you."

Absently, Mycroft's fingers stroked through Sherlock's dark curls. The detective sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.

"Mary might be of use, you know," Sherlock said quietly.

"She shot you," Mycroft said in a dead voice. "The only reasons that woman is still alive is because she is with child, John Watson loves her and you love John Watson."

Sherlock smirked. "She owes me a favour."

Mycroft felt a smile creep up his lips. Sherlock may not be as smart as him, but he was deliciously ingenious – and often, diabolical. A ray of hope was suddenly visible to him. If he and Sherlock could work together – then maybe, just maybe, they could all come out of this situation alive and unharmed.

"What did you have in mind?" the British Government asked.

Two days later, John Watson opened his door to find Mycroft Holmes standing on his porch, looking pale and drawn.

"Hello, John," Mycroft said.

"Jesus, you look dead on your feet," John remarked, ushering him in. "Is everything all right? Is Sherlock ok?"

Mycroft smiled tiredly. "Actually, it is for Sherlock that I am here to request a favour," he told the doctor.

"Of course," John said immediately. "What do you need me to do?"

Mycroft hesitated. "It might be a bit much to ask, but…"

John regarded him silently.

Mycroft leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. When he reopened them a few moments later, Mary had joined her husband and they were both regarding him curiously.

"Do you know anything about why Sherlock jumped off the roof?" Mycroft asked quietly.

John and Mary shared a look. "He said Moriarty had to be stopped."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "True enough, but not the whole truth." He sighed. "My brother killed himself because Moriarty had you, Mrs Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade at gunpoint. We could have taken a less traumatic option – and less injurious to Sherlock – if that had not been the case."

The Watsons remained silent.

"During the two year "hiatus" – as you call it – Sherlock travelled through the world, destroying every bit of Moriarty's network that he could find. The last bit was in Serbia. By the time he reached Serbia, however, my brother had run himself ragged, and he was captured. They tortured him for information, obviously. It was over a week before we were able to locate him. By then, the situation had deteriorated to such an extent that I had to go undercover myself to retrieve him. I was able to extract him from Serbia. Even half-dead, he still ran to see you as soon as we returned to London and we patched him up." Mycroft shot John a pitying look. "Of course, I warned him that you would not be very pleased to see him – but Sherlock is a child at times, and he couldn't fathom that his friend wouldn't be happy at his resurrection. You proceeded to make him bleed – understandable, of course. How were you to know that he was already walking around with broken bones, lacerations, contusions and PTSD?"

John swore under his breath.

"As luck would have it, Magnussen chose to abduct you. It is the only thing I am grateful to Magnussen for. Sherlock, of course, jumped into the fire to pull you out – and your friendship was on the mend. Of course, Sherlock knew he was going to lose you to your wife soon enough…but when my brother loves, he loves with everything he has. So, he busied himself with your wedding preparations. I am not sure if you realise what caused the drug relapse. Anyway, his drug habits are irrelevant now."

John was trembling by now, and Mary had an arm around his shoulders.

"Is there any reason why you are telling us all this now, Mr Holmes?" Mary asked archly.

Mycroft blinked. "As John would tell you, Mrs Watson, I never divulge information unless it is required."

"Clearly you want us to do something for Sherlock which we would not do otherwise, and you are trying to gain sympathy for him," Mary said.

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. "I really cannot imagine why Sherlock chooses to protect you, Mrs Watson, despite your attempts to murder him not once, but thrice. But then again, he may not have picked up on the attempts except the time you shot him point blank. He can be quite blind to the faults of those he loves."

John turned to his wife, and she shrunk visibly.

Mycroft levelled his raptor gaze at the ex-assassin. "The only reason you are still alive, Mrs Watson, is because you are loved by John Watson, and are carrying his child, and my brother loves John Watson too much to hurt his wife. If you weren't, not even Sherlock would be able to keep me away from you."

Mycroft turned to John. "Sherlock made a vow to protect the three of you – and he has. He was shot by your wife for his efforts, John, and he still endangered his life to reconcile you. He took on Magnussen, and killed him when no other alternative remained to keep your wife safe, even though it meant giving up his own life. He knew it would end with either his incarceration – and everyone knows what happens to policemen and detectives in prison – or in his exile, which would mean a fatal infiltration mission."

John started. "He said you told him it was for six months."

Mycroft smiled bitterly. "It was an MI6 mission that would prove fatal to him in six months, by my estimate, as I told him. I had asked him to decline it before it became the last resort."

"And you're never wrong," John replied. He rubbed his face. "Jesus."

"The only reason my brother is back in the country is because Moriarty showed up."

"But Moriarty is dead," John said.

"Jim Moriarty is. There are two more. And then there's their father." Mycroft locked eyes with John. "The father of the Moriarty triplets is my oldest and most dangerous enemy. He is smarter than Sherlock and I put together, and he will stop at nothing to get to Sherlock. He views Sherlock as his property, and he will happily go through me. He has been incarcerated for three decades now, and I was responsible for his arrest."

"What do you need me to do?" John asked, his soldier springing forth.

"I need you to keep Sherlock safe," Mycroft said simply. "I have reason to believe that I will not survive this affair, and Sherlock must be my successor – there is no one else capable enough. He has agreed to learn as much as I can teach him till the inevitable attack on me takes place – even if I survive the assault, I am likely to be incapacitated, and attempts to eliminate me will continue until it is successful. However, Sherlock must be protected at all costs. I would not be exaggerating if I said that the fate of England, as well as that of the civilised world, rests on keeping Sherlock alive and well and established as my successor."

John and Mary stared at him, dumbfounded.

"I need you to move into my townhouse till this affair is concluded. It is the safest place at the moment, and best for Sherlock's recuperation. He has not yet recovered – physically or psychologically, from his recent ordeals. We have a medical team at hand all the time, of course, so Mrs Watson's delivery will be conducted under the best of care. I would, however, advise you to choose the godparents with care."

"Sherlock," John and Mary said at once.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on, who else would we trust enough to be the Godfather to our child?" Mary said.

Mycroft nodded, a satisfied look flickering across his face. His face hardened. "Mrs Watson," he said, his voice soft and dangerous. "If Sherlock comes to any more harm by your hand, directly or indirectly, I will forget you are John Watson's wife."

John met the British Government's gaze unflinchingly. "You won't need to," he promised solemnly. It was not a husband's promise; it was a soldier's.

Mycroft nodded, pleased. "I trust you will be able to pack up in an hour?"

John nodded.

"A car will be here in an hour." Mycroft bid the Watsons a curt goodbye and left.

John turned to his wife. "What do you need me to pack?" he asked.

The crushing betrayal in his eyes was more than Mary could face. "John, I…"

John held up a hand. "Listen very carefully, Mary or AGRA or whichever character you are at the moment – there are two things that keep John Watson alive and happy. Sherlock Holmes, and the little family with his wife and child. I can love again, find another wife and have another baby. It will be difficult, but I can do that – I _have _done that. There is, however, only one Sherlock Holmes."

Mary stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I told you that your past problems are your business, and I will honour my word. Sherlock Holmes, however, is off-limits. If one hair on his head is harmed, you will lose your husband. Is that clear?"

Mary nodded fearfully.

Mycroft Holmes smiled as the conversation played on his phone. Pleased, he forwarded the attachment to his brother, hoping that John's concern – love – would put a halt to Sherlock's mission to self-destruct.

Sometimes, caring could be an advantage.

Sherlock heard John's warning to Mary with a small smile on his face. He knew Mary wouldn't hurt him unless she thought it would help her in some way – but with John issuing an ultimatum, she would probably be much more careful.

Things were moving according to the Holmes brothers' plans. Sherlock frowned when his brother returned, displeased at Mycroft's exhausted appearance. Mycroft was an impregnable fort – cracks in his façade would mean doom for anyone else.

"You need rest," Sherlock told his brother as soon as he entered.

Mycroft sighed. "No rest for the wicked, brother dear," he replied with a quirk of his lips.

Sherlock took his brother's hand – a gesture so uncharacteristic that Mycroft appeared shocked. "Brother dear," Sherlock whispered. "We can't afford to have you down."

Mycroft ruffled Sherlock's hair affectionately. "You are the East Wind, little brother. You will pluck the unworthy and restore balance to the earth. I know I never say it, but I am an incredibly proud big brother."

"That's what Magnussen said," Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

Mycroft shrugged. "He was smart and perceptive and a threat to this nation. You did well to end him, Sherlock…though it would have been much better if you or your doctor had not been seen on the premises at all." He smiled. "But you are not an assassin; stealth is not your forte. You are a dragon slayer with all the dramatic accoutrements that come with it."

Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft's face hardened. "Never again, Sherlock. Never again will you jeopardise yourself in such a fashion. Promise me."

Sherlock looked away. "I will try, brother. You have my word."


	2. Chapter 2

John and Mary Watson entered the townhouse to the sound of melancholy violin notes. John had been to Mycroft's home before, and greeted the butler, Jeffrey. Mary was ushered away to the guest room readied for the Watsons, and John made his way towards the music. Whether Sherlock knew it or not, his moods and feelings were always expressed through his music.

And the sad, lonely tune broke John's heart.

Sherlock stopped as soon as he heard his doctor approach.

"Hello, John," he said softly, with a small smile on his pale features.

John frowned. Sherlock didn't look much better than Mycroft. He knew that the Holmes brothers had not yet told him the full details of what they were facing, but anything that had both of them looking so drawn could not be good news. A shiver ran down his spine. Sherlock was not enjoying this particular game.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock said. While John had been ruminating, the detective had moved to stand right in front of him.

John enveloped his best friend in a hug.

"You mad, brilliant, heroic _idiot_," John muttered. "Don't you ever dare to do something like that again."

Sherlock chuckled. It felt good to have John back, and though he would never admit it, he had missed John's affection.

"That's an oxymoron, John," the detective said as John held his shoulders and examined him with a doctor's eye.

"Strip," John commanded.

"People will talk," Sherlock retorted.

"I don't care," John commanded. "You nearly died _again_ – and I'm not taking any chances."

Sherlock made a face. "I'm fine."

John was not above a little manipulation. "Sherlock, please…for me."

"Mycroft already had his medical team examine me."

"But they are not _your doctor_, are they?"

Sherlock smiled. "All right," he conceded. "Let's go to my room."

John cursed out loud when he examined Sherlock properly. Mycroft had not been exaggerating; if anything, he had understated. Sherlock was really not in a good state; his body bore witness to his battles. The scars, bruises and bandages did nothing to diminish his beauty, though. If anything, Sherlock was even more beautiful now. John shut the door on that line of thought and watched his friend dress again.

Sherlock handed him a file and John flipped through the test reports and prescriptions of Mycroft's medics, and realised he would have to keep an extremely close eye on his friend to ensure he actually took his pills.

"You are not leaving my line of sight," he told the detective firmly.

Sherlock scowled. "You are overreacting."

"I don't care if I am!" John's temper snapped. "I won't – _I can't_ – lose you again!"

Sherlock stared at the carpet, unable to respond.

"You are a married man, John," Sherlock whispered, not looking up at his friend. "You have your wife and child to look after. I will be fine."

John rubbed his face. "I have you to look after, too," he said quietly. "Your brother gave us some details – but not enough. I trust you will tell me more?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"You have my word that nothing you say to me will be repeated to Mary unless you or Mycroft expressly say so," John said, his voice sombre.

Sherlock nodded and launched into his tale.

John was pale and shaking by the time he finished. "Jesus Christ," he whispered. "One of you gone bad…"

Sherlock shook his head. "Sherrinford his smarter," he said. "Mycroft said so. He is…"

"…never wrong," John finished. "Yes, I know." He rubbed his face again. "Jesus. What do we do, Sherlock? If that maniac is even half of what Mycroft thinks he is, especially with two more Moriarty brothers, we need both you and Mycroft…and your brother seems…sort of…resigned to his own death."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Mycroft has been under a lot of pressure lately."

"Are you all right with this?" John asked. "With Jim being your…nephew?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I wonder if Jim knew."

"So…the other two…what are they called again?"

"Jacques Frost and Jonathan Mason. Jack is a small-time actor and spends most of his time in and out of mental institutions. Jon is a Professor of Mathematics at UCL."

Something clicked in John's mind. "Hold on," he said. "This professor – married? To Kate or Cathy or something similar?"

Sherlock nodded and beamed at John as they realised the same thing. "Her husband is three people?" Sherlock asked.

John was frantically searching through his emails. "Found it!" he crowed. "Kate Mason, married to Professor Jon Mason!"

"Good work, John," Sherlock told him. "Let's look at that mail again."

"_Dear Mr Holmes:_

_My husband is three people, I am quite sure. He has three distinct personalities (Playful Jon, Crazy Jon and Normal Jon), and even subtly different physical features (his moles and freckles move around), so it may not be split personalities, and he has no known family. I have already consulted a psychiatrist, a demonologist, a genealogist and now I'm coming to you. I have put up with this for five years, and I am at the end of my tether because Crazy Jon is appearing more and more often. Playful Jon disappeared about two and a half years ago. Please help. I fell in love with and married Normal Jon, and I want my husband back._

_Regards, Kate Mason"_

"You said they were triplets – and I mailed her," John said. "She wrote back with a thank you, and that she had spoken to her husband, and he had apologised for the deception. He told her that the triplets had been separated at birth and met quite by accident, and it was a harmless joke they played, pretending to be another. He assured her that one was dead and the other institutionalised, and she would not face this issue again." John frowned. "It fits the facts, but…"

"Moriarty's face was plastered all over media, John. How did she not recognise him?"

"You think she's in on it? But then, why would she contact you?"

"She has to be. If she notices differing mole patterns on her husband, she can hardly be unobservant enough to miss the face."

John could hardly argue with that. "Why contact you, then?"

"Boredom?"

"She's one, too?" John sighed. "I'm sick and tired of psychopaths."

"You could change your name and move to Burkina Faso."

John laughed. "Only if you come along."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm one, too."

"Yes, but I'm miserable without you," John quipped.

Sherlock smirked. John's heart fluttered. _Not gay_, he told himself firmly.

"So…should we get in touch with Kate Mason?" he asked instead.

Sherlock scowled. "My brother has me under house-arrest. I suppose we can send his minions, though."

"Or you could send your best man," John said.

Sherlock shook his head. "Too dangerous."

"And when have I cared about that?"

"You are a family man now, John."

"You are my family, too, you idiot. You are mine to protect, too."

"And you are clearly affected by Mary's hormones."

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I know sentiment makes you uncomfortable, and I am sorry to bleed feelings all over you, but you have to know how important you are to me."

"I know, John," Sherlock said softly. "And I also know that if it comes down to a choice between Mary and I, you will have to choose Mary, or you would never be able to forgive yourself or me."

John shook his head.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What has my brother been saying to you?"

"Things you should have said to me much, much before." John put a gentle hand on the detective's shoulder. "You are not alone, Sherlock. You will always have me, whether you want me or not."

"Mary makes you happy," Sherlock said. "I will not take that away from you."

"You make me happy, and she tried to take you away from me."

"She didn't have a choice. Magnussen…"

"There is always a choice," John said sternly. "And what about the other two times?"

Sherlock stepped back, his face a picture of shock. "What other times?"

John stared. "You don't know. You really don't know."

"Know what, John?"

"Mycroft said Mary tried to kill you three times…and that you had probably not noticed the other two attempts because you were blinded by sentiment."

Sherlock's face settled into a cold mask. "Get out, John. I need to think."

With a sinking heart, John left his best friend and went in search of his wife. He needed to know the truth, and if he couldn't get it from the Holmes brothers, he would get it from his wife.

He found Mary curled up on the bed, watching TV.

"What were the other two attempts?" John asked without preamble.

Mary blinked. "Really, you want to do this now?"

"Yes." John stared at her levelly. "Would you prefer if I asked Mycroft?"

Mary sighed.

"I wasn't really trying to kill him," she said. "If I did, he would already be dead."

"You stopped his heart. _Twice_."

"I could have shot him through the head." Mary switched off the TV. "He has done worse to you. Why are you so angry with me?"

"Because he faked his death to protect his friends. He sacrificed himself, gave up his life, his work, everything, to protect you, so I could be happy. You nearly killed him and he still did his best to reconcile us." John looked away. "And you – you did nothing but manipulate me from the day we met. Sherlock does not know it yet – but I bet Mycroft does – you were working for Moriarty, weren't you?"

"So you did read the pen drive."

John shook his head. "I wish I had." He fixed his eyes on his wife. "I still care for you, Mary. I hope you will not make me regret that."

Mary tugged the blanket closer.

"When Magnussen put you in the fire and sent me to get Sherlock to rescue you, I injected him with a cocktail of drugs just before we got off the bike. It should have knocked him out – he should have been unable to think straight enough to get you out. He would have been trapped in the fire, and I would have pulled you out. I'd have tried to get him out, but failed. The drugs had no effect. I thought I might have ended up drugging his bloody coat instead of his skin." She looked up at her husband. "It was a half-hearted attempt at best, trust me."

John remained silent.

"The second time was at our wedding. I sent a drug dealer his way when he left; I thought he might overdose." Mary stared at the blanket. "The third time, I shot him in Magnussen's office. Obviously I missed any vital organ."

John stared at his wife.

She smiled wistfully. "I am quite fond of him, you know. I didn't like him at first – I thought he did you more harm than good, and that he might take you away from me…but then I realised that he loved you too much to do anything that would make you unhappy. And I made you happy."

John said nothing.

"I know he makes you happy, too," Mary said quietly. "I understand that you need him almost as much as he needs you. But he is not your pressure point, John; I am. I know you want to protect him. I will help you as much as I can, I promise. Sherlock brought you back to me, and he saved my life. I owe him for that. I always pay my debts."

John nodded and left.

He came across Mycroft in the hallway. The British Government looked even more exhausted than before. He greeted John with a wan smile and stumbled.

"Jesus, Mycroft," John swore as he rushed forward to steady the man. "What is wrong with you?"

"I am perfectly fine, John. Thank you for your concern."

"I _am _a fully qualified doctor, you know."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "I do."

"And I insist on a full check-up right now," John said firmly. He spotted Sherlock across the hallway and called out.

Sherlock was by their side in an instant. "What happened?" he asked urgently.

Mycroft pushed John away and drew himself up. "Worry not, brother mine. A momentary lapse. Perhaps it would be prudent to get some sleep."

"Oh no, you don't," John said. "Either you let me examine you or you get your medical team here to do so while I look over their prognosis."

"They are perfectly qualified, Dr Watson," Mycroft retorted.

"Yes, but they might be afraid of you," John said simply. "Which may affect their ability to deal with you."

Sherlock laughed and Mycroft sighed.

XXX

Mycroft had, predictably, overstretched himself. John gave him an earful and commandeered a room, putting both Holmes brothers to bed. He even threatened to call Mummy before Mycroft and Sherlock relented.

"We need you both functioning at full capacity," he said firmly. "Not even you two can argue with that."

Anthea teamed up with John and cleared Mycroft's schedule for the next few days. The much-needed rest benefitted both brothers, and two days later, they had improved visibly. It helped that John made Sherlock happy, and seeing Sherlock happy made Mycroft happy.

On the third day, when Sherlock had wandered off to get his violin, Mycroft and John had a "grown up" talk.

"Thank you, John," Mycroft said softly. "With you by his side, my brother will make it through."

"With both of us by his side, Mycroft," John corrected gently. "He needs you as much as he needs m – probably more."

Mycroft's silence spoke louder than words.

"You knew about Mary, didn't you?" John asked. "You said she made three attempts on Sherlock's life. You knew about the drugs at the fire and the dealer after the wedding. Why did you let it happen?"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock's drug tolerance is very high, John. That little cocktail took hours to take effect, and by that time we had already administered the…antidote, if you will. Sherlock had no idea; he had inhaled smoke and he had some rather painful burns. He barely paid attention to the medication being administered to him." He sighed again. "He almost overdosed after your wedding. Luckily, I was waiting for him at Baker Street when he returned, and I was able to persuade him otherwise."

"And you let Mary be."

"She is your wife, John. Sherlock would never forgive me if I caused her harm."

"But not anymore?"

"We have bigger threats to neutralise." Mycroft's eyes hardened. "I can deal with Sherlock's hatred. I refuse to deal with his death. Sherlock must be protected at all costs, John, even from himself. I cannot stress this enough. It is absolutely vital that Sherlock lives."

John smiled. "He will."

Mycroft nodded gratefully.

"And so will you," John added.

Mycroft shrugged. "Irrelevant."

John opened his mouth to speak, but Anthea's appearance cut him off.

"I'm afraid I have bad news, Sir," she said. "We were unable to interrogate Kate Mason. She was found dead in her kitchen this morning. Her husband is in Vienna for a conference and is flying back as we speak."

"Any clue who killed her?" John asked.

Anthea shook her head. "The police think it was an accident. She was electrocuted by a malfunctioning microwave oven."

"He killed his wife so we couldn't question her," John muttered. "Jesus."

"Status of #1 and #3?" Mycroft asked.

"#1 is still incarcerated. #3 is in therapy. His whereabouts are accounted for."

"Intimate my brother, please." Anthea nodded at Mycroft's command and left.

Mycroft turned to John. "Sherlock trusts your wife, and I don't. But then again, I don't trust anyone except my brother, to an extent." He levelled a steely look at the soldier. "However, I can promise you that no harm shall come to your wife until she betrays either you or Sherlock. Your child will be protected at all costs at all times."

John nodded gratefully.

"This is too repetitive. It is tedious," Mycroft complained.

John laughed. "You're just like your brother," he said.

Mycroft looked affronted.

Sherlock appeared, grinning ear to ear. "We have a case, John!"

"You are not leaving the house," Mycroft said sternly.

"I will run away," Sherlock threatened. "Put your minions around Baker Street if you must; I can't stay here any longer. You are driving me mad."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "No."

"Your fear is irrational. I am not putting up with you anymore," Sherlock snapped.

"I am trying to keep you alive, you idiot!" Mycroft was close to losing his temper.

"What is the point of living if I can't do anything I want?" Sherlock yelled. "I'd rather be dead!"

Mycroft sprang from his bed and towered over his little brother. "How dare you?" he demanded, his voice colder than ice. "You made me a promise, and you couldn't even last a week."

"I suppose you should have expected it then," Sherlock snarled. "After all, when have I ever been anything but a disappointment to you, as you are so fond of reminding me again and again?"

"Why won't you ever do as you are told?" Mycroft hissed.

"Why do you always need to control everything?" Sherlock shot back.

John threw up his arms. "Boys, calm down," he said firmly.

"I am leaving," Sherlock announced and stormed out.

Mycroft fell to his knees. John helped him up. As soon as he was upright, Mycroft waved him away.

"Go with him, John," the British Government said. "Keep him safe. I will have your wife sent back to your home."

John ran after his best friend.

An hour later, Anthea appeared. "Sir, both of them have escaped."

"Ford and Jack?" Mycroft asked.

Anthea nodded.

"Very well," Mycroft said. "Alert Sherlock and John. Double security and surveillance on my brother. He must not be left alone for a single moment."

Mycroft called his parents after Anthea left. Mummy wanted to come over to London immediately, but he managed to dissuade them. No point in handing out more targets to Ford.

He called Sherlock next, but his stubborn little brother refused to answer the call. Sighing, he sent a text. _Ford and Jack are out. Be careful._

Then, Mycroft Holmes locked himself in the bathroom and for the first time in three decades, broke down and wept.

XXX

One week later, Sherlock was taken.


	3. Chapter 3

"Where is he?" John Watson asked, striding into the British Government's office.

Mycroft looked up from the kanji document he was reading and raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock has disappeared," John said quietly. "Please tell me the security details you keep around him haven't lost him."

Mycroft pressed a button and Anthea appeared immediately.

"Locate Dragon Slayer. Code Red." Mycroft's voice was cold and brisk. Anthea nodded and left.

John's lips twitched. "Dragon Slayer?"

Mycroft smirked. "What else would you call my brother, John?"

John chuckled. Then he remembered why he was here, and sobered. "He has not been seen for three days. Mrs Hudson said he went out on Monday morning with a client and hasn't returned since. Molly texted him on Tuesday, but received no response. He usually doesn't respond to her, just shows up by the next day, so she wasn't worried until last night. Greg called him last night with a locked room triple murder – at least an 8 – and it went to voicemail. His text went unanswered. He called me this morning and we've checked all known boltholes, mobilised his homeless network, but no one seems to know anything. Calls are still going to voicemail and text messages are not being answered. His phone is not in Baker Street; we combed through the flat. That's why I'm here."

Mycroft sighed, sadness and concern shining in his usually cold eyes. "I wish you would not use me as the last resort where my brother is concerned."

John shrugged. "You are the British Government; you have been visibly busy lately – I see you appearing in pictures everywhere these days. We wouldn't want to inconvenience you if he's just sulking in a broom cupboard at Bart's."

Mycroft looked straight at John and his raptor gaze, akin to Sherlock's at his most intense, pierced through the doctor. "_Nothing _is more important to me than my brother, John. I would have thought you, of all people, would realise that."

John nodded quietly. Magnussen's voice floated in his ears. "Mycroft Holmes' pressure point is his junkie detective brother." He didn't realise he had spoken out loud until he saw Mycroft's face.

The British Government had his eyes tightly shut, his expression pained. It was the most vulnerable John had ever seen him.

"Indeed," Mycroft whispered. His struggle to regain his ordinarily calm demeanour was eerily visible for a few moments before the Iceman slid into place.

It was fortunate that Mycroft had his control back, because Anthea came in almost immediately, her face pale and afraid.

"We have lost him, Sir. The last available footage is of Monday morning, at Paddington. He boarded the first train to Cardiff. The men who followed him have just been found dead. They appear to have been murdered on Monday – but someone has been checking in with the security team. We have pulled up Cardiff videos; he never arrived." She looked sick.

"There is no surveillance video of my brother for over three days and no one raised an alarm?" Mycroft's whisper was deadly.

"Video files were sent, Sir, but the staff supposed to review them did not. He spoke to the agents checking in and assumed all was well. We have him in custody and he is being interrogated as we speak."

Mycroft lost it. "And how many times has this happened in the past?" he thundered.

Anthea lifted her chin. "I am personally seeing to it, Sir." Her face was hard as stone, and John feared for every single person who had been too lazy to watch Sherlock's tapes.

"Tracking?" Mycroft hissed.

"His phone appears to be still in Paddington. His subcutaneous chip has been deactivated."

Mycroft rubbed his face tiredly. "Get Q to track his pacemaker. Minimal intrusion, limit further cardiac damage as much as possible and monitor diagnostics. Coordinates to my phone only."

Anthea nodded, wide-eyed. "I'll keep a medical response unit ready as well."

Mycroft stood up. "Reschedule everything to next week. Dispatch Melas, Porlock and Wiggins to Baker Street immediately."

"Yes, Sir," Anthea replied and strode out.

John stared at Mycroft. "Sherlock has a pacemaker? Since when?"

"Since your wife shot him," Mycroft replied. "Half his heart is synthetic. If my experimental medicine team had not interfered – twice, John – my brother would be dead. He was, in fact, dead for fifteen seconds the first time, and twenty six the second." He smiled slightly. "But of course, Sherlock was loathe to inform you. You would have left your wife and child if you knew the truth, he surmised…and he had to keep his vow, didn't he?"

John could only stare open-mouthed.

"My brother was wrong, of course. I told him, but he does so love to contradict me. You would not have left Mrs Watson even if she had murdered my brother successfully. Why would you? You _love_ her." Mycroft spat furiously. Then his shoulders slumped and he rubbed his forehead tiredly. "But Sherlock likes to believe you love him, too – and I did not want to break his heart, so I did not bother to stop him," he added softly.

"But Mary has been helping us," John said.

"Of course she has," Mycroft snapped. "Sherlock may be my pressure point, John, but do you honestly expect that I am incapable of keeping an ex-CIA rogue assassin in check?"

"You didn't do anything when she shot him," John said. "Or the other two times."

"I respected Sherlock's wishes," Mycroft bit out. "Against my better judgment. I tire of this conversation. Have we not been over this issue enough times already?"

"Why?"

"Because Sherlock has never begged for anything in his life – especially not from me – until that day at the hospital when he lay recuperating from the gunshot wound your wife inflicted on him. Sherlock Holmes begged me to hold my tongue and my guns – for your happiness, Dr John Hamish Watson."

John had lost his colour. "The other day, when you had come to our house and asked us to keep Sherlock safe…or when we spoke at your townhouse, you never said this."

"John, do you honestly think that I would trust your wife enough to reveal Sherlock's vulnerabilities to her? Jim Moriarty could not manipulate the required information out of me, and he was the best. It takes at least a Holmes to bring down Mycroft, John."

"And now you think a Holmes has Sherlock," John said.

Mycroft rubbed his tired eyes. "Who else would be capable of luring Sherlock away?" He stood up. "I assume you would like to help?"

"Of course."

"Baker Street. Now."

Billy and two more men were waiting for them when they reached 221B. Mycroft introduced John to Melas and Porlock – the former, an MI6 Agent, and the latter, one of the ring-leaders of Sherlock's Homeless Network.

"Any news?" Mycroft asked.

Melas nodded. "Cardiff is most likely." He held out a paper to Mycroft. "List of properties in and around Cardiff that have been traced back to Holmes, Moriarty, Frost and Mason."

Mycroft pursed his lips and nodded. "The Holmes estate."

John heard a chopper.

Mycroft smiled grimly. "Our ride is here."

XXX

By the time they reached Cardiff, Q had confirmed Mycroft's estimate of Sherlock's location.

"Isn't it a bit too obvious?" John asked Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled. "Ford would appreciate the irony. Besides, it is unlikely he would harm Sherlock at this stage. He is not the one Ford hates."

To John's surprise, no one stopped them as they walked through the front doors of the Holmes estate. Wiggins stayed outside. Porlock and Melas went off in opposite directions.

John and Mycroft were greeted by an elderly butler, who, shockingly, seemed to be fond of Mycroft – if the massive hug and a cry of "Master Mycroft!" was anything to go by. Even more shocking, however, was the scene that awaited them when they were shown to the drawing room.

Sherlock and an older man sat at the tea table, sipping tea and talking quietly. The man could only be a Holmes; the resemblance to Mycroft and Sherlock was apparent. He had the same mercurial eyes the brothers shared, and he had a head full of auburn curls. He stood up when he noticed the new entrants, and John realised he was even taller than Mycroft.

"And the cavalry arrives," Sherrinford Holmes said, making a grand sweeping gesture. "Hello, brother dear."

Mycroft was pale as death.

John rushed to Sherlock. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?" he asked urgently.

Sherlock shrugged. "I am fine, John." He shot an accusing glance at Mycroft. "You really are slipping, _blud_. It took you three days to figure out I was gone? Or perhaps you knew and didn't care?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. Sherrinford laughed.

"You know, Mikey," the oldest Holmes said. "I always knew there was something fishy about your attachment to Lockie. Too obvious a vulnerability for someone like you." He laughed. "But he really is entertaining. I can see why you'd want to keep him around."

Sherlock winced. John regarded him solicitously. Mycroft stared at his little brother for a long time before turning to his older brother.

"It is best not to torture your little brother if you want to keep him, Ford," Mycroft drawled.

"Oh, good, you got that," Ford said in a singsong voice, an echo of Jim Moriarty's cadence. Ford Holmes was much more sinister, however, with his towering height and deep baritone. "Lockie is quite a delight, you know? Makes the most delicious, stoic little noises when whipped." He pulled Sherlock to him and looped a possessive arm around his waist.

Sherlock bit his lip and closed his eyes. John and Mycroft exchanged a worried glance. Sherlock was injured.

Ford smiled widely, patting Sherlock's back. "It was quite touching, actually. For the first twenty four hours, he firmly believed big brother would swoop in to rescue him." He turned and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Then he realised he had a bigger big brother perfectly willing to accept him for who he is, rather than inhibit him at every turn."

"And I shall make an appropriately arduous apology to him later," Mycroft said, his voice cold and controlled. "Sherlock is not the naïve little idiot you think him to be, Sherrinford."

Ford pushed away the detective. "Well, you can have him back now; I'm done with him. I just wanted to know why my little Jimmy adored him so."

Mycroft didn't even glance at Sherlock. John took his hand, though. Sherlock's fingers tapped out a message on John's palm.

"Yes, my condolences for your loss," Mycroft said flatly. "It must be difficult to lose a child."

Rage contorted the oldest Holmes' face for a few moments before he laughed again. "Indeed. You would know, wouldn't you, brother dear?"

Mycroft shrugged. "What do you want, Ford?"

"Really, Mikey," Ford said, shaking his head. "You always were an idiot, but this is positively imbecilic. Do you not know what I want?"

Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft glanced at John. John nodded.

"Come on, Sherlock," the doctor said quietly. "Time for us to leave."

Sherlock shook his head.

"For once in your life, William, do as you are told," Mycroft snapped. "This is beyond your comprehension. Get out."

"Come on, Mikey, don't be a spoilsport," Ford said. "Lockie is still the curious little boy I remember, diving face-first into everything." He reached out and ruffled Sherlock's hair affectionately. "Aren't you, little brother?"

Sherlock leaned in and soaked up the affection like a cat. Mycroft's shoulders slumped.

"All right, Ford. You have won," he said tiredly. "What do you want me to do now?"

Ford regarded the British Government critically. "You actually care for him," he said, sounding surprised. "Really, Mikey. You utter idiot, did you not learn a single thing I tried to teach you?"

Mycroft smiled unpleasantly. "You will find, brother dear, that I learnt much more than you wanted me to." He turned to John. "Please take Sherlock home. I am certain Sherrinford and I will be able to reach a consensus."

"No," Sherlock said loudly.

His older brothers stared at him, identical expressions of annoyance on their faces.

"Sherlock, you are in over your head. Go," Mycroft said, exasperated.

Sherrinford stared at his younger brothers, clearly irritated. "Do you two ever stop bickering? My God, the noise! You are still the pests you were thirty years ago!" he yelled.

John couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. Sherlock grinned. Even Mycroft's lips twitched.

"Sorry, Mr Holmes," John said, gasping. "But that's what little brothers are for."

"And you'd know, would you, you moron? When you have done nothing but annoy your older sister enough to drive her to drink?" Ford snapped at John.

"Shut up," Sherlock shouted.

Ford smirked. "Oh yes, the little soldier fellow that is your pressure point. Sherlock, you really do disappoint me. I wish I had brought you up; you could have been so much more."

"If you had brought him up, he would be dead or insane by now. Look at what you have done to your own sons – one dead, one insane and one just murdered his wife!" John screamed.

"Enough!" Ford roared. "Do you answer for each other now? Is it too much to ask for a civilised, grown-up conversation?"

John and Sherlock giggled.

Mycroft chuckled. "Brother dear, you really do expect too much."

Ford whipped out a gun and aimed it at Mycroft's head. He was furious.

"I had not expected the need to resort to such mundane methods to eliminate you, brother," Ford snarled. "But this is too tedious and I have lost my patience."

Mycroft arched an elegant eyebrow.

"Vatican Cameos!" Sherlock cried.

Several things happened at once. Mycroft's ever-present umbrella came up in an arc and dislodged Ford's gun. John pulled out his gun and shot Sherrinford cleanly through the shoulder. As Ford fell, Sherlock grabbed his phone and sent a few rapid texts.

Porlock and Melas appeared. "Secured," they said simultaneously.

Mycroft nodded and glanced at his older brother, who had passed out.

"He'll live," John said. "So you should be able to get whatever information you need."

Porlock and Melas carried Ford out.

Mycroft and Sherlock stared at each other for a long moment before Mycroft enveloped his little brother in a hug.

"I apologise, Sherlock," the British Government said softly. "I have let you down yet again."

"I know fieldwork is not your natural milieu," Sherlock said, smiling. "But thank you for wading in."

Mycroft shook his head. "We have much more to do. I doubt Ford's plans would be foiled by something as minor as his custody."

"Lucky that you have you have your dragon slayer back, then," John quipped.

"Indeed," the British Government replied.

"John," Sherlock said, sobering. "We need your help."

"You know you always have it," John told him.

"It will be more dangerous than ever before," Sherlock said.

John held up his hands. "All right, all right, you've recruited me, no need for more carrots!"

"Excellent," Mycroft interrupted. "I am glad you have a plan, Sherlock, because I will not be able to assist you for a while."

The doctor and the detective turned to face the bureaucrat.

Mycroft's face was the colour of chalk and he was sweating profusely.

"I believe I am going into cardiac arrest," the British Government said and collapsed.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft Holmes woke up on his rarely used (but decadent, nonetheless) bed. His throat was parched, and he reached out for the glass on the bed-stand.

His wrist throbbed as the IV was wrenched out.

Mycroft sighed and took stock of himself and his surroundings. He was hooked to complicated medical equipment that whirred and beeped at him. Reassured by the readings, he reached out for the water again.

Thirst quenched, he looked around for his phone. It was nowhere in sight. Alarmed, Mycroft disentangled himself from various pipes and tubes and stood up. He staggered out of his bedroom and towards the staircase. Once he reached the head of the stairs, however, he paused. He would not be able to make his way down the stairs without support. He stumbled, and a strong pair of arms caught him around the middle.

"Have a care, brother dear," came the much-loved voice of his younger brother.

Mycroft smiled.

"What on earth are you doing, brother?" Sherlock enquired, his voice soft with concern.

"Looking for my phone," Mycroft replied.

"I have it," Sherlock told him and led his brother back to the bedroom. "You, _blud_, need to rest." Mycroft was helped back into his bed.

Sherlock handed his phone over.

"How long have I been out?" Mycroft asked, scrolling through his mails and texts.

"Almost two days."

"Sherrinford?"

"Incarcerated." Sherlock huffed. "He has been interrogated repeatedly, but he would not tell us what he did to you. John was quite worried."

"I'll be fine." Mycroft waved away the concern. "Jacques?"

"Dead."

Mycroft blinked. "How?"

"Mary shot him," Sherlock replied. "He followed John into Baker Street, and she followed him. He slit my throat – well, my wax statue's, anyway, since I was here – and she shot him. I have the video if you'd like to see."

Mycroft smiled. "I am glad Agent Algar hasn't lost her touch."

Sherlock frowned. "Algar….rings a bell." His eyes widened. "You let John date and marry the _Mantissa_?" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I do not make John do anything. And I did tell you that John and Mary would be extremely delighted not to have me hanging around."

Sherlock flinched.

Uncharacteristically, Mycroft reached out and caught Sherlock's hand. "Don't worry, brother mine. Whatever else she might have done, Mrs Watson adores her husband. And she is quite fond of you. I think, perhaps, she has finally understood that there is no John Watson without Sherlock Holmes."

"It's the other way round," Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft shook his head. "It works both ways, Sherlock. You and John are co-dependent. Perhaps unhealthily so – but he makes you happy, and you make him happy, so why should anything else matter?"

"Ford said…"

"No," Mycroft said firmly. "You are too smart for his mind games, Sherlock. Look and draw your conclusions for yourself."

Sherlock fell silent. Finally, he said, "Mummy and Daddy want to visit."

Mycroft sighed. "Let them," he said. "But they will have to stay with me, and put up with the security detail."

Sherlock nodded. "They were worried about you."

Mycroft laughed. "They worry about you, brother dear, not me."

"They would have put me in an asylum and I'd have been dead by now if it weren't for you," Sherlock said softly.

Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his bed and closed his eyes.

XXX

_*Flashback*_

_Seventeen year old Mycroft Holmes entered the gates of the Holmes Manor after a full year at Eton, hoping to be caught up in the whirlwind that was his little brother, Sherlock. He had been unable to come home for Christmas, and Sherlock had stopped writing to him. Worried, Mycroft had asked his parents, but Siger and Violet Holmes had assured him that his ten-year-old brother was fine. Behaving, even._

_That made Mycroft uneasy. Sherlock never behaved. So, he had taken to writing to Sherlock every week and sending him little gifts – but Sherlock had remained stubbornly silent. He would not even speak to Mycroft on the phone or email. Father and Mummy insisted that Sherlock was simply sulking._

_So, Mycroft had tied up his affairs at Eton as quickly as he could and taken the train home a full week earlier than he was scheduled to. Of course, this required special permission, but the Headmaster had a soft corner for Mycroft – after all, he was the Head Boy and scheduled to join Oxford in a few months._

_Mycroft hoped that his surprise early arrival and the very special gifts that he had picked up would appease Sherlock enough to break his silence. Mycroft cared very little about people in general, but his younger sibling was the apple of his eye._

_The house was eerily quiet as he stepped out of the taxi. Father and Mummy were probably out, he guessed. But Sherlock should have been at home at this hour. _

_A sense of foreboding filled him as he rang the bell._

_The door was opened almost instantaneously by the housekeeper, Mrs. Thompson. _

"_Master Mycroft!" she exclaimed. "We were expecting you next week!"_

_Mycroft smiled. "Pleased to meet you too, Mrs. Thompson," he said._

_She ushered him in. Richards, their butler, appeared, greeted Mycroft and whisked away his luggage to his room._

"_Your parents are out of the country for a few days, I'm afraid," Mrs. Thompson told him. "They will return the day after tomorrow."_

"_Where is Sherlock?" Mycroft asked._

"_He is probably out by the lake, Master Mycroft," Mrs. Thompson replied. "Why don't you freshen up and I'll whip up some muffins for you?"_

_Mycroft shook his head. "I would like to meet Sherlock first," he said. "I have something for him." He walked to the door, then turned around. "Actually, Mrs. Thompson, it would be lovely to have some hot chocolate and blueberry muffins."_

_They were Sherlock's favourites._

_XXXXXXXXX_

_Mycroft found Sherlock sitting on the grass under their favourite tree. It was a horse chestnut tree planted by a Holmes ancestor several generations ago; a souvenir brought back from Kiev. When Sherlock had been three, the gardener, Peter, had told him it was a conker tree, and Sherlock had promptly named it "Conker". _

_Mycroft frowned at the sight of his little brother. Sherlock was barefoot, and appeared to be wearing only his dressing gown. His cheeks were red from the cold, but he appeared unaffected as he stared at a fallen leaf with unseeing eyes, clearly lost in his thoughts, and gave no indication of registering Mycroft's approach._

"_Aesculus hippocastanum," Mycroft said quietly, taking a seat next to his brother._

_Sherlock flinched and his head whipped around to face Mycroft, dark curls bouncing._

_Mycroft's heart clenched at the unfamiliar look on the boy's face. Fear. However, before Mycroft could say anything, Sherlock's expression turned neutral._

"_Hello, Sherlock," Mycroft said gently._

_The ten-year-old did not reply._

"_Mrs. Thompson is making us some hot chocolate and blueberry muffins," Mycroft said._

_Sherlock refused to look at his older brother._

"_Sherlock, please, speak to me," Mycroft said softly, unable to restrain the pleading tone in his voice. "I am sorry I could not be home for Christmas this time, but I came home a week early for you."_

_The younger boy shivered._

_The ground was cold. If that dressing gown was all Sherlock was wearing, he must have been freezing. Mycroft sighed._

"_Really, Sherlock, why are you in this state of undress?" Mycroft asked, but received no response._

_The teenager sighed again and took off his coat. "Put this on, at least," he told his younger brother._

_Sherlock shook his head and backed away._

_Mycroft was a very patient person, in general. His little brother, however, had the ability to drive him insane._

"_Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, stop this idiotic behaviour. You're making me consider a good bout of disciplinary action!" he said irritably._

_Finally, Sherlock looked up at his brother with a resigned look on his face. He stood up, shed his dressing gown – there really was nothing under it – and laid himself on his stomach across Mycroft's lap, clearly expecting to be spanked._

_Horrified, Mycroft looked down at the thin body of his sibling. Sherlock had clearly been given a thorough beating recently; his buttocks were a shiny red and his pale back was marred with bruises, as well as a few shallow cuts. Gingerly, Mycroft turned him around. Sherlock's front was not much better. His wrists and ankles showed slightly older rope-burns. Mycroft's sharp eyes categorised each injury and each shadow of an earlier injury. This was not something new; it had been going on for several months, at the very least._

_Mycroft saw red._

"_Who did this?" he thundered._

_Sherlock opened his eyes and shot a puzzled look at his brother._

"_You're angry," Sherlock said finally. His voice was hoarse, unused. "Why?"_

_Mycroft closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek. How long had it been since Sherlock had uttered a word to anyone? How had it come to this? Why had he let it?_

"_Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft cried softly, bundling his brother into his coat and hugging him close. "I am sorry. I am so, so sorry."_

"_You are sad," Sherlock observed. "Why are you sad? You wanted to hit me, so do it."_

"_No," Mycroft whispered. "No, never. Have I ever hit you, Sherlock?"_

_The young boy relaxed a little and shook his head._

"_And I promise I will never raise my hand on you," Mycroft said solemnly. "And I will not let anyone else hurt you either."_

_Sherlock looked away. "You can't promise that. You left. You will leave again."_

"_I will ensure you are not hurt in my absence," Mycroft promised. "Father and Mummy..."_

_Sherlock recoiled._

_The realisation hit Mycroft like a ton of bricks._

"_Father and Mummy did this? They hurt you?" he asked dangerously. "Who else, Sherlock? You have been beaten today, and Father and Mummy are not in town. Who else?"_

"_Everyone," Sherlock said quietly. "Father and Mummy have given a carte blanche to the staff and to all my teachers and tutors to discipline me as they see fit, including corporeal punishment, when I misbehave."_

_Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is that why you did not write to me? Were you not allowed?"_

"_Mummy told me you were sick of me and didn't want to speak to me or write to me. I thought you left me...then, one day, I found a pile of letters addressed to me hidden away in her room. I stole them. She found out before I could send a reply to you. She had me tied to her bedpost and whipped. She told me I was ruining your education and future prospects by trying to be in touch with you. I stopped talking, then. I try to be good, Crofty, I do. But they still think I misbehave." Sherlock was crying now, his thin shoulders shuddering with sobs._

_Mycroft went cold._

_He stood up, holding his little brother close. Sherlock automatically wrapped his legs around his brother's waist and buried his face in his shoulder._

_Mycroft walked back to the house._

"_Your hot chocolate and muffins are ready, Master Mycroft," Mrs. Thompson said as soon as she saw him. She noticed his thunderous expression and the boy nestled in his arms. _

"_Send them up to Sherlock's room, please." Mycroft's voice was naturally imperious, and angry as he was, no could dare to refuse him._

_She swallowed nervously. "Master Sherlock is not supposed to be allowed any treats," she said in a small, scared voice._

"_That will be all, Mrs. Thompson," Mycroft said coldly._

"_I'll have it sent up," she stammered shakily. "What would you like for supper?"_

"_Shepherd's pie and ice-cream pudding," he ordered. "More hot chocolate." All were Sherlock's favourites._

_Mrs. Thompson fled to the kitchen._

_They encountered two more staff members on their way to Sherlock's room. Mycroft left them shaking in their boots._

_By the time they reached Sherlock's room, the hot chocolate and muffins were waiting for them. Mycroft coaxed his brother into a warm bath, patched him up and wrapped him up in soft, warm clothes._

_Sherlock sat in his big brother's lap and felt safe for the first time in almost a year. He enjoyed his hot chocolate and muffins – they were his favourites._

_Mycroft held his little brother close, almost afraid to let go._

_When Sherlock had pushed away his tray and snuggled closer to his brother, Mycroft pressed a kiss to his brow._

"_Tell me everything," he said quietly._

_Fear and panic battled for dominance on Sherlock's face._

"_Please." Mycroft controlled his voice with tremendous effort and carded his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls in a soothing motion._

_Sherlock nodded weakly and launched into his tale. _

_He had deduced Father's affair with his secretary, and Father had belted him till he passed out._

_He had deduced Mummy's displeasure with a socialite at her tea party, and Mummy had him caned._

_He had deduced that the gardener's assistant was stealing Mummy's exotic seeds and selling them on the side. The man in question had thrashed him with a branch of nettle. Mummy had stepped in and fired the gardener's assistant, but Sherlock had not been appreciated for his discovery._

_He had asked his biology teacher to explain how DNA worked, and when the teacher had been unable to explain, he had gone ahead and rattled off his knowledge. He had been whipped for disrupting the class._

_It went on and on._

_Every time Sherlock had made a deduction or asked a question, he had been punished. He had stopped wearing his underwear to school, and had discarded clothes altogether around the house._

_Mycroft listened stoically and suppressed the desire to gather his brother into his arms and run away from his tormentors. When the ten-year-old finished his tale, neither of them was dry-eyed._

"_Please don't hate me," Sherlock begged, his voice soft and scared._

"_You are the most precious thing in my life, Lockie," Mycroft replied gently. "I could never hate you." Steel crept into his voice. "And I will not let them hurt you again."_

_Hope appeared in Sherlock's eyes. "But you have to go to college," he said, his face falling._

"_And I will take you with me," Mycroft said with finality. "We will take a flat close to the university and we will find you a school there as well._

"_I don't want to go to school," Sherlock said. "Why can't you teach me?"_

"_I will see what can be done," Mycroft replied._

"_They said I'm a sociopath," Sherlock said quietly. "That I was dangerous to other people unless brought under control. They recommended strict discipline to keep me in line."_

"_Who?"_

"_The psychiatrists." The ten-year-old looked up at his brother with watery eyes. "Am I a freak, Crofty?"_

_Mycroft shook his head emphatically. "You are not a freak. Never, ever believe that, Lockie. You are a brilliant and beautiful boy. You are my little treasure. They are all idiots and don't understand how smart you are."_

"_You are smarter than me," Sherlock said softly. "And no one hates you. What is wrong with me? Why does everyone hate me?"_

"_They don't hate you, Lockie – they are scared of you, because you are so much smarter than them. They are scared of me, too, but I keep myself in the shadows so often that they forget it. I will teach you to manage people, Sherlock. No one will ever lay a finger on you again. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I promise."_

"_What if Father and Mummy don't let you take me?"_

_Mycroft smiled dangerously. Years later, this smile would make monarchs and top politicians shrink away in terror._

"_They will," Mycroft promised. "And everyone who has hurt you will pay for their sins."_

_XXXXXX_

_By the time Siger and Violet Holmes returned from Germany, every single person who had laid a finger on Sherlock Holmes was cowering piteously at the feet of Mycroft Holmes, begging forgiveness. _

_Everyone who had considered Sherlock to be demon-spawn now knew his older brother was hell's angel when his little brother was hurt. Mycroft knew exactly what to say, where to press to back them into a corner with no recourse or remedy. A seventeen-year-old held the power to destroy their entire lives in his hands. He would not kill them – no, nothing so pedestrian for the regal Mycroft Holmes. He would bring them down brick by brick._

_Sherlock watched in awe and grown men and women begged for mercy at his brother's feet. Mycroft would regard them disdainfully and ask Sherlock what to do with them. Sherlock would mostly shrug and for the particularly vicious ones, he would recount what they had done to him. Mycroft would punish them accordingly._

_Mycroft had become the owner of half the town in a day. None of these people would dare to defy his mandate throughout their lives. And Sherlock was safe. _

_When Father and Mummy returned, they found their two children sitting at the dining table, feasting on hot chocolate and blueberry muffins. Sherlock saw them first and froze._

"_Hello, Father. Hello, Mummy," Mycroft said coldly, pulling a trembling Sherlock close._

"_Hello, darling," Mummy greeted him. "We didn't know you were back early. How have you been?"_

_She moved forward to hug her elder son, but Mycroft waved her off._

"_Is everything all right?" Father asked, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock. The ten-year-old flinched._

_Mycroft put his arm around his little brother's shoulder and pulled him even closer._

"_No," Mycroft said. "Everything is not all right." He smiled dangerously. "But it will be."_

_The Holmes patriarch was not impressed. _

"_What have you been telling him, boy?" he snarled at his younger son. He stepped towards them._

"_The truth," Sherlock whispered. "I told him the truth," he repeated, his voice louder._

_Mycroft felt a wave of pride flow through him. _

"_And the truth is that this child is a psychopath!" Mummy cried. "We tried, Mycroft – we tried our best to keep him in line, to make him normal."_

"_You idiots," Mycroft hissed. "He has the brains of a scientist, or a philosopher. He is brilliant, extraordinary. He will never be normal, because he is so much better."_

"_It worked, though. The boy has been quieter and better behaved lately," Father said._

_Mycroft's vision turned red. "Your son did not speak a word for over six months because you abused him, and you call that "better behaved"?" he snapped._

"_That hellion is no son of mine. I have only one son," Father declared._

"_No, Father," Mycroft said quietly. "Now you have none."_

"_Mycroft!" Father and Mummy shouted at the same time._

_Mycroft smiled._

"_You are my heir," Father said. "You are the scion of the Holmes family, Mycroft. You cannot turn down your legacy because that little demon came crying to you."_

"_We are still your parents, darling, and you are not an adult yet," Mummy said softly. "We tried to keep Sherlock here in the hope that he will be cured, but we were wrong. He is a psychopath and he needs to be sectioned. We will send him to the best institutions the world has to offer, we promise."_

_Sherlock whimpered._

"_You will not touch my brother," Mycroft said, his voice low and dangerous. "And you are wrong. Sherlock is not a psychopath. But I am. And I will see the world burn before I let you, or anyone else, hurt him any further."_

_The fury in his eyes made his parents take a step back._

"_Make no mistake, my dear parents, as to who is in charge here," Mycroft told them, his face set into a cold mask. "I do not need to be an adult to bring you down. If you take one step out of line, I will ensure that you spend the rest of your life behind bars. Do you know what they do to child-abusers in prison?"_

"_Why, you little..." Father attacked Mycroft – but Mycroft had taken up combat-training in his free time. With a swift movement, he had Father pinned to the wall._

"_This is all your fault!" Mummy screamed at Sherlock. "I wish you had never been born!"_

"_And I wish you had died giving birth to him, you pathetic excuse of a woman," Mycroft spat at her. "Sherlock is worth far more than both of you and your estates and legacies put together."_

_Mummy paled and burst into tears. "But Mycroft..." she began._

_Mycroft held up a hand. "I am giving you a choice here. You can both continue your life normally and leave us alone in peace, or you can try and stop us, in which case, I will ensure a scandal of epic proportions that will result in the incarceration of you both. In either case, Sherlock is coming to stay with me till he can go to a school of his choice."_

"_And how will you induce this epic scandal?" Father asked._

_Mycroft smiled. "Let us take a seat," he said amiably, and the Holmes family took their chairs around the dining table. Sherlock sat next to his brother and their parents sat facing them._

_Mycroft set forth his plan in great detail. Occasionally, Father or Mummy would ask a question, and he would smile and answer. Sherlock came up with a couple of excellent suggestions, and Mycroft beamed at his little brother._

_Finally, Father sighed. "Well played, son, and well done," he said to Mycroft. "We will do as you say." He turned to Sherlock. "For what it is worth, child, I am sorry. I did not realise that both my sons were geniuses, and for that, I will forever be ashamed. I hope you can forgive us someday."_

"_Will you at least visit sometimes?" Mummy asked tearfully._

_Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who bit his lip and nodded. _

"_We will visit enough to keep up appearances," Mycroft said quietly. "But not until Sherlock is comfortable with it, and if Sherlock is harmed in any way, directly or indirectly, by you or your actions, you will never see either of your sons again."_

_Father and Mummy nodded solemnly._

"_You are brilliant," Sherlock said reverently to Mycroft. "Thank you. No one can fool you."_

_Mycroft kissed his younger sibling's brow. "It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me."_

_Sherlock blushed and climbed into Mycroft's bed, as he had been doing since Mycroft's return. The older Holmes brother sat at the edge of the bed and carded his fingers through the younger's dark curls until he fell asleep. Once he was sure Sherlock was fast asleep, he curled up on the couch. The little boy still had nightmares, and Mycroft was reluctant to leave him alone._

_XXXXXXX_

_Sherlock ended up in Eton. Mycroft was relieved, as he still had many contacts at Eton who revered him, and were happy to look after his little brother for him. Sherlock called them his minions – but he had learnt from Mycroft to keep his thoughts to himself until it served a purpose. However, unlike Mycroft, who had a natural tendency to be quiet, Sherlock was a naturally exuberant person. His brain needed activity. He needed to move around._

_And he still had nightmares sometimes._

_Mycroft visited almost every weekend. His "minions", of course, kept him updated about Sherlock's activities – though Sherlock himself seemed reluctant to let his brother know of any trouble he had at school. It didn't deter Mycroft._

_A few bullies had tried to pick on Sherlock. He had fought down his panic and deduced their weaknesses out loud. They were livid and would have attacked Sherlock if a prefect had not been passing by. Mycroft's minions had taken care of the bullies later._

_Sherlock Holmes was not to be touched, or the consequences would be massive._

_Then Sherlock got bitten by a dog belonging to Victor Trevor on his way to the chemistry lab._

"_Kingston, stand down!" Victor shouted._

_The dog let go of Sherlock's trousers as Victor came running._

"_Are you all right?" he asked Sherlock. He glanced at Sherlock's leg, which was impressively bloodied. "Oh my God, he's bitten you! You're bleeding! Kingston, you idiot dog, look what you've done!"_

_Sherlock was feeling rather faint by now. He lurched, and Victor caught him. The last thing Sherlock heard before he blacked out was Victor's panicked, "Oh, God, please let him be all right!"_

_When Sherlock woke up, he was in the Hospital Wing, and Victor was sitting next to his bed, looking pale and drawn._

"_How are you feeling?" Victor asked as soon as he noticed Sherlock was awake._

_Sherlock considered his body. His leg hurt, and his head felt groggy. He said as much, and winced at how croaky his voice sounded._

"_Oh, God, I am so, so sorry; it's all my fault – I shouldn't have kept that stupid dog," Victor said. "I am so sorry."_

"_What happened to the dog?" Sherlock asked curiously._

"_I've sent Kingston back to my dad. I should have done it sooner; you wouldn't have been hurt then," Victor said morosely. He rubbed his face._

_Sherlock was quite surprised at the distress of the other boy. That surprise, mixed with the drugs, addled his brains and his deductions spouted out before he could stop them._

_Victor gaped at him. "My God, how did you know that? Do I know you?"_

_Sherlock shook his head and explained._

_Victor stared at him in awe. "God, that was amazing! You're a genius!"_

_Sherlock nodded, too surprised to speak. His deductions were not usually by appreciated by anyone other than his brother._

_Victor groaned. "My dog bit a genius."_

"_Well, he wasn't one," Sherlock said, smiling slightly._

_Victor grinned. "No, a complete idiot, that dog. I really am sorry, you know – tell me what I can do for you? Should I get you your homework? Which form are you in?"_

_It turned out Victor was two years senior to him and not an idiot. They chatted for a few minutes before the school nurse came in to shoo Victor away._

"_Victor Trevor," Victor said, holding out his hand as he stood up to leave. "Glad to make friends with you."_

"_Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied, shaking the other boy's hand._

_Victor's eyes widened. "You're Mycroft Holmes' brother?"_

_Sherlock nodded._

"_That explains the genius," Victor muttered. "But you're quite nice!" He smiled. "I'll be back with your homework later this evening, Sherlock – do rest and try to get better in the meanwhile."_

_Sherlock drifted back into sleep, a warm feeling spreading through him._

_When he woke up next, he found an exhausted Mycroft sitting on the chair next to his bed._

"_Hello, little brother," Mycroft said gently. "How are you feeling?"_

_Sherlock grinned. "Better," he replied. "Why are you here?"_

"_You were hurt, Sherlock; of course I'd be here," Mycroft told him._

"_I'm all right, Crofty. Don't worry so much."_

_Mycroft smiled a little. "Oh, I worry about you, my dear brother. Constantly. And I suspect I will, for the rest of my life."_

_Sherlock scowled and Mycroft chuckled._

"_So, how did this come about?" the older Holmes asked._

_Sherlock narrated everything._

_Mycroft smiled. "Looks like you've made a friend, Lockie."_

_Sherlock grinned shyly._

_As if on cue, Victor came in, arms laden with text-books and sweets._

"_Hey, Sherlock, look what I got for you," he started excitedly and stopped short on seeing Mycroft._

_Mycroft ruffled his brother's hair affectionately and stood up. "Hello, Mr. Trevor," he said softly. "Mycroft Holmes."_

"_Hello, Mr. Holmes," Victor said nervously._

"_I shall leave you two to work, then," Mycroft said. "Do take care, Sherlock; I will drop in at the weekend. Mr. Trevor, good to see you." He left._

"_Wow," Victor said reverently, staring after Mycroft. "Your brother is quite something, isn't he?"_

_Sherlock could only agree._

"_But he's a bit scary – I like you more; you're nicer!" Victor declared._

_Sherlock blushed._

_It was the start of a great friendship._

_XXXXXXX_

_Reginald Musgave, who went by "Reggie", soon joined Victor and Sherlock. Reggie was a little wild, and rather popular, and in the same year as Victor._

_Sherlock did not run into any trouble till Victor and Reggie were at Eton._

_The semester after they left was when troubles began._

_Sherlock didn't really have any friends other than Victor and Reggie, but their influence had calmed him down, and he was more or less accepted amongst other boys. They had also kept him from mouthing off a lot of people._

_Soon after they left, however, Sherlock found himself being called a "freak" to his face again, and sometime later, he was in the company of Neville St. Clair and cocaine._

_And Mycroft didn't know, because Mycroft was stationed in China for an entire year._

_Sherlock's tormentors had finally realised that his protectors were no longer available. The bullying got worse, and Sherlock grew more and more dependent on cocaine to relieve the stress. The only days he was sober was Wednesday evenings, because that is when Mycroft called._

_One Wednesday evening, however, he was unable to take his brother's call._

_A Shanghai-London flight-time later, Mycroft Holmes was striding through the corridors of Eton._

_Mycroft found his brother in his room, spread-eagled on his bed, with each limb tied to a bedpost, lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit. _

_Mycroft had not imagined schoolboys could be so brutal to one of their own._

_Heads would roll._

_Sherlock woke up briefly when Mycroft bundled him into his coat and lifted him gingerly._

"_Crofty? Am I dead?" he croaked._

_Mycroft kissed his brow. "No, Lockie. You will be all right. I am here."_

"_I'm sorry," Sherlock cried softly. "I'm really sorry."_

_Mycroft held him close. Sherlock blacked out in less than a minute. _

_Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was being patched up in the hospital wing by an elite team of medical personnel, the headmaster and warden of Sherlock's hostel were cowering at Mycroft's feet and UKSF troopers were dragging out the boys responsible for Sherlock's condition._

_Half an hour later, all the guilty boys had been rusticated and were on their way to juvenile prison. Mycroft was on an SAS helicopter with his little brother and doctors, en route to his London townhouse._

_XXXXXX_

_Sherlock woke up with a groan._

_His brother was at his side immediately._

"_Sherlock?" Mycroft asked softly._

_Sherlock smiled sleepily. "This is a good dream," he murmured. "I missed you, Crofty."_

"_I missed you, too, Lockie," Mycroft said gently. "How do you feel?"_

_Sherlock blinked. His eyes cleared as sleep faded into alacrity. He took in his surroundings, and Mycroft's exhaustion. The pain registered and he winced._

"_You're home?" he asked his brother. "For me?"_

_Mycroft nodded. "My call went unanswered."_

"_I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, biting his lip. _

_The older Holmes sighed. "Oh, Lockie...why didn't you tell me?"_

_Sherlock looked away. "I didn't want to disappoint you again," he said quietly._

"_And you decided not to disappoint me by resorting to drugs?"_

"_It made everything bearable." Sherlock's voice broke. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I couldn't manage them – I tried, but without Victor and Reggie...and then Neville got me some coke, and it felt so good and I could forget everyone hated me and I was disappointing you but I kept my grades up and..." He paused, breathing heavily after the rush of words. "It hurt so much and I just wanted to feel normal."_

_Sherlock could almost hear his brother shatter. Mycroft said nothing, showed no emotion for almost a full minute. Then he buried his face in his hands and dropped to his knees by Sherlock's bedside, trembling. When he finally looked up, the expression on his face was one Sherlock could not decipher. And he hated it._

"_How are you feeling?" Mycroft asked._

"_Everything hurts," Sherlock replied honestly. "What did they do to me?"_

_Mycroft closed his eyes, as if to calm himself, then looked straight at his brother. "What do you remember?"_

_Sherlock dipped into his memories. "Not much," he confessed. "I was waiting by the phone for your call...I think they must have hit me at the back of the head. The next thing I remember is being tied to my bed. I think I heard Neville shout at someone. Then I remember colours, pain and blackness. Next I saw your face."_

_Mycroft nodded grimly. Neville St. Clair had saved Sherlock from getting raped, and had thought to mitigate his pain with a speedball. Thank God for small mercies. Of course, that had not saved Sherlock from a brutal beating, and the cocktail of drugs had made him throw up. His attackers had fled when Sherlock had begun vomiting blood. Neville had been too terrified to do anything other than make Sherlock drink some water. Then he had heard footsteps and fled when Mycroft burst into the room._

_Fortunately for Sherlock, Neville had passed around enough drugs and alcohol that the assailants had lost some of their motor coordination. As such, he had escaped without permanent damage to any major organs or any fractures. _

XXXXX

*Present day*

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock was attempting to wake his older brother. Mycroft was clearly in the middle of a nightmare, and crying out for Sherlock. It didn't take a Consulting Detective to figure out that Sherlock was either dead or injured in his brother's dream.

Mycroft opened panic-stricken eyes.

"It's all right," Sherlock said awkwardly, patting his brother's back. "I'm here, and we're safe. It's all right."

Mycroft let out a strangled laugh. Sherlock handed him some water to sip.

"I apologise, brother," Mycroft said softly. "It has been a long time since I was so caught up in a flashback."

"How do you feel?" the younger Holmes asked.

Mycroft ruffled his brother's curls. "Much better." He paused and looked at his brother for a long time. "How are you holding up? And why are you here, Sherlock?"

A flash of hurt crossed the detective's face. "I'm all right," he said. "John patched me up." He took a deep breath. "I wanted to keep an eye on you."

"Thank you," Mycroft said. "But I am expendable in this matter, Sherlock. You are, and must remain, the top priority."

Sherlock looked away.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You are keeping something from me," he said. "Tell me."

Sherlock shook his head.

"_Tell me_."

"We are keeping your recovery a secret," Sherlock said. "When we got you back, Anthea told us she had uncovered some moles in your department. Also, you have been in the public eye a lot, lately. So we put out that you are in a coma. What were you thinking, Mycroft, making all those public appearances and drawing attention to yourself?" Sherlock blinked, realisation dawning.

Mycroft smiled at his brother. "I always knew you were cleverer than you let on, brother mine."


End file.
